Patterns

I am enamored of patterns—what repeats, how often; the infinite variations.
Promise of something to count on: discovery or reward after anticipation.
Veins in the hearts of leaves, time's inscrutable architecture in the pith of trees. 
I count to pay attention; perhaps to learn something like prayer.

Promise of something to count on: discovery or reward after anticipation.
Old stories tell of trials in numbers—one, five, seven, a hundred and one.
I count to pay attention; often it feels like it shades toward prayer.
If you don't solve the riddle, you're returned to the beginning.

Old stories tell of trials in numbers—one, five, seven, a hundred and one.
In every one, a spell or enchantment; a captive needing release.
If you don't solve the riddle, you're returned to the beginning. 
You, you only want reunion—with the lost son or daughter, the one great love. 

In every story, a spell or enchantment; a captive desiring release.
Did you tuck every thread into the weaving, sew every sleeve on right?
You pray for reunion with the lost son or daughter, with the one great love.  
You want to believe there's more than incessant repeats in the pattern.